


A Lover in My Bed and a Gun to My Head

by KellerProcess



Series: Fire Meet Gasoline [1]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Drugging, Gun Kink, Homophobic Language, M/M, Sexist Language, Swearing, basically there's a lot of dangerous edgy and unusual sex here, both parties are willing, but they basically have no idea what "safe sane and consensual" mean, cw: Immortan Joe should just be a thing, dubcon elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4115506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/pseuds/KellerProcess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before they were Immortan Joe and the Bullet Farmer, Colonel Joe Moore and Major Kalashnikov banged in a cave this one time...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lover in My Bed and a Gun to My Head

I should have known what he had in mind when I crested the ridge to find Deepdog and the others walking toward me.

“Scouting,” he explains before I can open my mouth. “Moore thought he saw something a ways back. Thinks it might be a town with supplies. Hopefully some birds too,” he adds, raking his eyes up my body.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I’ve just come back from scouting myself and found fuku-all. I’m a mountain of sand and dried sweat, and all I want is my water ration my ninety minute nap before I need to see what’s making my motorcycle’s engine splutter. 

I don’t have the patience for guessing games or his insinuations.

Of course, the jarhead doesn’t give me a response but a shrug. “Go on back, Kalashnikov. Rotation’s still the same. Though you may not get that full ninety minutes.”  
What the hell is he talking about? “If you wake me up for any reason but a sandstorm or someone being on fire, so help me—”

Deepdog holds up his hands. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just sayin’.”

He and the party walk off snickering, and I’m honestly too tired to fire a warning round after them. It would be a waste of bullets, and really, the less I respond to them, the less obnoxious they’ll be. 

At least they’ve all but stopped asking me if I want to “drill” the new recruits. Though I suppose there was even a small mercy in their adolescent humor and their “no homo”ing. If they wish to think I’m gay, so be it. Their presumptions in that direction make no difference to me and spare me an explanation I do not wish to give.

“I can’t clean you today, my darlings,” I tell the firearms strapped to my back, my hips, and my left thigh. “The flesh is weak, even though my blood is willing. If I do not sleep now, I’ll have to start the cycle all over again. I hope you can understand.”

They don’t reply—not in so many words. But their warmth against my skin tells me I am forgiven.

The cave in which we have made camp for the last seven days is one of the best we have found. High enough in the rocks to discourage curious predators—human and otherwise—deep enough to provide cover from the furious sun. I can’t help but sigh in relief as I enter. My sleeping bag is just to the left, in a small alcove around a corner. The ache in my muscles is a drag by the time I reach it, and I make quick work of stripping myself of pistols, riffle, and bandoliers. Quick work too of uncapping my water bottle and downing half the ration. It tastes of dust, like everything else. A bit more metallic than usual. Hm. With everything finally back in its proper place, I stretch out and roll to my right. Wadded up, my tattered poncho serves as the only pillow I care to seek out right now. 

I don’t remember anything at all after that. A dim sound of metal, perhaps, clinking against stone. But my dreams, when I have them, are all steel, all flint, and so I think nothing of it.

Chill on my body, down my legs. A chill like evenings used to be, before the world became a hot ball of toxin and sun.

Water, then, along my belly, the valleys of my groin. 

I remember that feeling. A pool during an ever-hotter summer day. The ocean lapping more of me and my brothers as we wade in.

My legs, though…they should be wet too. Yes?

Something’s not on. 

“Mhhn.” My eyes flutter open, and for a moment I forget where I am. The beach? My father’s house in Toowomba?

No. The fire. The collapse. The end.

“Hm?” I jerk upright but fall back. My arms stay where they are. Above my head? I tug upright again, fall back again. Try my wrists. Chained together. “Wha’?”

My head is foggy. Cottony. But not enough to soften my panic. I push the feeling down and shake my wrists, angle up my neck. Chained together. Chained to something heavy. I find that out when I try to pull my arms around in front of me and they barely clear my scalp.

I shift on my sleeping bag and turn my head to the right. My guns are missing. I shift again to be sure, and cotton rubs against my bare skin.

Naked. I’m naked and bound. My weapons are missing. A raid? No. Too quiet for that. 

“You’re taking an awful long time to figure it out.”

“Moore?”

Crunch of stone, and his blue eyes come into view from the side. He’s grinning, showing his teeth.

“Fuk-ushima, Moore,” I groan. “The hell happened?”

“My fault,” he says. “No measuring spoons, so I had to make a guess. You’re skinnier than you look.”

“What are you talking about?” I shake my head to clear it.

Moore huffs out a sigh and rolls his eyes. “You’re a brilliant strategist. The best damn marksman I’ve ever seen. I trust you with my life. You know that. But you sure as hell got shafted when it comes to understanding how men actually behave.”

“Get to the point, Moore.” My head’s clearing a bit now, and my patience is running short.

“Deepdog tried to warn you that you wouldn’t be getting much rest,” he says breezily. “But you were probably too busy thinking about guns to put it together. So really…” He chuckles. “This is all your fault.”

My patience is at an end. I’m just about to tell him when I hear the click of an action and warm metal presses against my temple. Moore’s Frontiersman. I’d know it anywhere.  
“I’m going to make this very simple,” Joe whispers, drawing out the I. “I haven’t had a good fuck in weeks, and I’m tired of asking you all polite like a suitor only to hear no or to have you just lie back and give me nothing for my hard work. So you’re going to put your legs around my waist and take it now, and if you’re a good soldier, I might just use this.”  
He pulls the trigger. Nothing fires into my skull, but my cock jerks with interest.

“Mhm,” my CO chuckles. “Thought that might get your attention. And don’t worry about messing your bag, either. I took care of that. And the oil too.”

The water from my dream. I clench my cheeks and feel the space between them glide with slick. “Fuk-ushima, how the hell much of that stuff did you give me?”

“More than I would have for a girl.” His tone is apologetic as he cups my cheek and runs his thumb over my lips. “Not my fault that you’re nothing but muscle and bone and don’t know your poisons.” He leans in close, licks along my ear. “Make sure you lock them tight around me too. I want at least one good clean ride, and Deepdog’s not coming back ’til sundown.”

Yeah, like hell he’d want to walk in on this. “You’d better thank me when this is over,” I say as I bring my legs up around his barrel of a waist. I poke my ankles into his bare arse to make my point.

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll get your flowers and chocolates.” He prods the barrel of Frontiersman into my temples again. “Keep it quiet too.”

“Don’t I always?”

Moore laughs as he rubs his dick against my hole. Before I can tell him to stop pissing around and get on with it, he shoves it into me.

The first time Joe fucked me he pounded me so hard I couldn’t ride without wincing for days. My experience in bed is laughably small compared to even the youngest man in our party, but even I knew that he needed to be more careful. He stretched me with three fingers the next time, and every time after. That was at least a year ago, though, and now he doesn’t need to work as hard. A few thrusts in and it feels pleasant enough. Another click of the hammer sets me moaning.

“You’re such a fucking freak,” Joe says on a thrust. His chuckle turns into a moan as I tighten my muscles around him.

“Yes, but I never need to drug my lovelies into compliance,” I remind him. “Or chain them up.”

“I like you chained,” he grunts. I bite my lip as this one sends sparks arching through my back. “Looks good on you. Same as bandoliers do. You should just wear them and nothing else.”

“Mh, to quote Deepdog, ‘No homo.’”

“That’s right.” Joe thrusts again. “Fuck.”

“Indeed.” 

“Told you no talking,” he says as he kisses me, shoving his tongue deep.

“Mhh.”

One would think that a man like Joe would do his business on another man in silence, pull up his trousers, and walk away never to speak of it again. No kissing. No caressing. Not even a backward glance. His interest in women is almost an obsession. As soon as we find some who aren’t dying or leprous, he clearly intends to keep them for himself. Some days, their bodies and the breeding of them is all he can talk about. It is puzzling. I wondered at first if he could be bisexual, but he shows no interest in any of the recruits or in any of the men we meet in our travels. And sometimes when I ride beside him, he ignores me as if I don’t exist. 

Yet sometimes he can’t seem to keep his hands off me.

I guess the desert makes us all strangers to ourselves. For example, I used to be indifferent to his usage of me. He is my commander, his hand isn’t enough for him, and I’m the only one of our party who doesn’t feel threatened by having him “treat me like a whore.” (Oh yes, despite what Joe thinks, I have heard the men whisper.) My small arsenal is to me what women are to Moore. I have always been content with that fact.

Now, however…sometimes even when he doesn’t bring a lovely gun into our encounters…sometimes I can’t keep my hands off him, either.

“Mhh. Fuk-ushima, Moore. That’s nice…” I say as he trails his lips down my neck.

“Yeah?” He chuckles into the next kiss. “Didn’t think you liked kissing. All that water and muscle. Not enough metal and gunpowder.”

“You’ve got a gun to my head and you’re drilling my prostate. I think everyone makes exceptions.” I’m babbling now; I don’t care.

He clicks the trigger, and again the barrel jerks against my head. Empty.

“It’s not Russian Roulette if you don’t load the chamber,” I remind him.

“I’m not killing my best officer just so he can get it up, Kalashnikov.”

“Mhh, God forbid I actually enjoy myself.”

“Shut up.” He bites my lip this time, and his Colt clatters to the floor as his hands go to my hair, tugging me with each thrust. Biting. Sucking. Rutting.

My lips are going to be swollen when Deepdog and the men return. I’m going to look a mess. I’ll probably still be soggy from whatever he poured into my water.  
I don’t care. I don’t care. I think it as each thrust threatens to split me open. I don’t care. I don’t care.

Which of us comes first is a complete mystery. But suddenly, my stomach is slick and hot and Moore is slumped against me, panting into my neck, an elbow the only thing keeping his weight from crushing me.

“F-fu…” God, I want to touch him. I pound my wrists against the sleeping bag; the clink of the chains mocks me.

Moore’s laughter is hot against my neck. “Don’t like that a bit, do you?”

“Go to hell.”

“Temper, temper.” He tilts his head back and runs his thumb around my lips. “God, you’re sexy when you’re mad.”

“You won’t say that when I shoot you in your sleep.”

“Won’t I?” 

I bite his thumb as he dips it into my mouth. Hard enough to make him hiss.

“Arsehole.” He doesn’t slap me hard enough to bruise, though. “Give—mh…gimme a sec. You’ll—you’ll get your turn.”

His kisses to my neck come slower now, until he’s ready to pull his soft dick out of me. For a moment, I can barely feel my legs. I concentrate on disentangling them from Moore as he leans up over me and fiddles with my wrists. I imagine punching him in the face as soon as my hands are free. It would serve the bastard right. Instead, he crawls back down my body and grabs my hips.

“The hell?” I ask as he shifts onto his back. But I let him tug me forward until I straddle his thighs. My arms are over my head now, and I still can’t move my wrists apart.  
“Got you chained up to that old AC we found a few miles back,” he explains as I look over my shoulder.

So that’s why he made us cart that hunk of junk along. “You’ve been planning this.”

“For _weeks_.” He widens his eyes on the second word and pulls me down onto his hips. “Get your colonel hard again, Major.”

“Yeah, that’s not so easy when you’ve got me trussed up like a POW.”

“So use your imagination.”

I test the chain’s give and find it satisfactory. “I’ll need some help getting lower,” I tell him. “Can’t do everything with my glutes.”

“Of course.” His hands are already on my sides, helping me down on top of him. With just a little grunting and a near—entirely accidental—elbow to his ear, I’m able to straddle his sides, hands up over his head, an oval frame for his face.

“You’ve really thought this through,” I say of the chain’s give.

He laughs. “Shut up and get to work.”

Moore’s nipples are my favorite parts of him. They don’t remind me of meat and blood but of bullets. Small and hard. A bigger caliber when sucked and gnawed, as I do now.  
“Fuck.” Moore’s hands are in my hair again, tangling, pulling. “Fuck, that’s good. Don’t stop.” 

I do, though. Fuku-bastard. Thinks this is all about him. I kiss up his chest, lick a necklace around his collarbone. It’s hard as steel beneath my lips, the skin over it salty, but not unpleasant.

“Hey. Hey!” Moore slaps my arse. 

“Is it my turn now, or isn’t it?” I snap before biting his earlobe.

That sets him grumbling, but at least he stops after another slap. 

“I should punch your lights out for trussing me up like this,” I tell him. “I’m not some new recruit you can haze for the hell of it.” But I shimmy down to his nipples again anyway and cut off his answer by licking and biting them into hard little knife-points.

“Get on my dick,” he growls when I’m apparently taking too long.

I cant my hips back and grind my arse against it.

“K-Kalashnikov, fuck.” When he tries to grab it, I press forward, pinning him to the dust.

“Not so nice now, is it?” I hiss before biting his earlobe.

“Fuck you.”

“Hmm, what?” I tug it again. When he swears and grabs for my arse again, I block him with my knees. “My turn now,” I remind him.

And I make sure to get him swearing and writhing before I push back and slide myself down on his cock. 

“Slower,” he snarls. “Fucking—”

I ignore him, rising and falling and squeezing until he’s bellowing my name in a frenzy.

“I am the conductor of your body,” I tell him, sliding down again. “And you should be quiet, Moore,” I remind him, singsong.

A final, hard squeeze sends him screaming in the middle of telling me to go to fuck my mother. I keep squeezing even when I coat his stomach with my semen, even as he calls me every filthy name he can think of and some he makes up on the spot. This time, when I collapse on top of him, he wraps his arms around my back and pulls me tight against him.

Now that—that is surprising, I think as I nuzzle his neck. Moore doesn’t like hugging. 

The more things change, the stranger they become.

“You’re squeezing too hard,” I tell him after we’ve both caught our breaths.

“Good. You deserve it.” When he starts to move, I move with him. We fumble a bit, but eventually we manage to disentangle him from my legs, arms, and the chain. He stands with a grunt and a pop of his knees and walks out of sight. A clink of metal, and my hands fall to the ground in front of me. I lie there, facedown, as he returns and unwinds my wrists.

“Fuk-ushima…” 

“Heh. Yeah.”

Moore guides me back to the sleeping bag and arranges my head against his shoulder before offering me another water bottle. “Not drugged this time,” he says as he uncaps it. 

“Promise. Too tired to do you again, anyway.” 

I take it and chug it down with a grunt, making sure to spit a little in his face before I’m through. “I was promised candy and flowers,” I remind him as I settle my head in his lap. For once, the mingled odor of our bodies doesn’t disgust me. It’s intriguing. Salt and musk and sand and…I sniff again. Mh. Gunpowder.

“Greedy, ain’t you?” One hand in my hair, Moore shifts his weight back. I tilt my head up to see what he’s doing and grin as he drags the empty Frontiersman over his thigh.

“You got my gun dirty,” he tells me.

I look at the dirt covering the barrel. “Mh. Sure did. Poor lovely.”

He pushes the barrel against my lips. “Lick it clean.”

My incisors slap the lovely’s barrel as I turn my head to look up at him. “Y-you’re serious?”

“Mhm. I want it so shiny I can see my face in it, Major. And if there’s a single spec of dirt on it, you do the whole thing again.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

I lick every inch of his Colt, and Moore strokes my hair the entire time, telling me what a fucked-up freak I am the whole way. Of course, I miss a patch behind the trigger. Of course. And despite his complaints of being tired, Moore fucks me against the wall for my error, then makes me finish myself off while I repeat the task. By that time, I’m far too tired to bait him again.

We dress in silence. Moore stops me with a touch to the back when I reach for my poncho.

“No,” he says. “Just the trousers tonight. And those bandoliers. When the men are asleep and the watch is posted, I want you in my sleeping bag.”

“Fuk-ushima, Moore! How many nuts are you planning to bust in me in one day? I’ve got shit to do tomorrow.”

“Who said anything about busting a nut?” he asks with a smirk. “That settlement I sent Deepdog to?”

“What about it?” I say, guarded.

“Unless I’ve gravely miscalculated, they should be arriving back with at least a few bags of small arms around sundown. You’re going to catalogue and clean each and every one of them while I watch—in nothing but those ammo belts.”

“Yeah?” I ask. I try to sound nonchalant, even though my cock’s hard enough to shoot some bullets of its own. “Well, I sure as hell hope you’re not going to let me have my hands free for it.”

“Oh, your hands, yes,” he says, pulling me in for one more kiss. “Your feet, though…well, that’s another story.”


End file.
